


Double Hat-trick

by Ephermeralk



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Ice-hockey AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 15:22:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3386642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ephermeralk/pseuds/Ephermeralk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apparently they’re not friends anymore. Well, Jensen can shove it, because Jared’s not letting this one go lightly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Double Hat-trick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sleepypercy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepypercy/gifts).



> A/N: Written for my super-duper-awesome-gorgeous-amazingly-practically saintly-best friend around these parts sleepypercy. Not only is SHOW DAY, but it’s also MARDI-GRAS, and MOST IMPORTANTLY YOUR BIRTHDAY. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BB. *licks you* Love your face!!! Also—last year for your birthday I wrote you skiing fic, and this year it’s ice-hockey. I dunno. Maybe next year you’ll get j2!soccer. Or J2-as-gymnasts??? Not beta’d, and I’ve got tired-brain, so I’ll edit tomorrow.

They used to be friends. Best friends, in fact. Grew up together—two boys learning to use the ice as their weapon of choice. That was a long time ago. Back before recruiters. Before college and the Frozen Four. Before Jensen was accepted into Boston University, and Jared had gone out west to play for Denver. 

Right here, right now, in the cold, United Center arena it's the first time that he’s seen Jensen in four years. 

“Hey,” Jared says, trying to grin despite his mouth guard. 

“Eat it, Padalecki,” Jensen snarls at him as their hockey sticks clack loudly against one another. 

Jared’s so taken aback, wants to know what the hell is going through Jensen’s head that he lets Jensen gain control of the puck. Jensen-1, Jared-0. 

“What the fuck, Padalecki?” He hears his left-wingman Murray call from across the ice. “Get it together.” 

The best response, is of course, no response. He can’t waste the breath he needs to sprint across the rink. To stop Jensen, right before….

Yeah. Too late. 

Not two minutes into the first period and Jensen’s already scored. 

Fuck that. 

Jared knows better than to let his feelings get in the way. Jensen wants to play rough? Fine. Jared will show Jensen exactly what he’s packing these days. 

They go back and forth during first period. Taking equal time on and off of the ice. Resting their overstrained muscles for too-short minutes, just in time to break down their bodies even further.

Halfway through the second period, Jensen winds up in the penalty box for hooking, and Jared follows not more than a minute later for high-sticking. Once he’s inside, he tries to catch Jensen’s eye. When it’s clear that’s not going to work, he spits out his mouth guard, and asks, “Good game, huh?” 

Jensen turns his face, which has somehow developed from angular and boy-ish into a strong, square jaw line with hints of auburn stubble, and snaps, “Seriously. I don’t care what you have to say, Jared. You can go fuck yourself.” 

Then his time in the box is over, and when he gets out onto the ice, Jared watches him score his second goal. 

It ramps Jared up, watching Jensen’s teammates surround him. Slapping him on the ass. It makes his blood boil, and his cortisol level spike with the itch to goddamn take Jensen to the ground and show him exactly how he feels. How much he’s missed Jensen in his life. How much he’s wanted to kiss those full, red lips since they were teenagers. 

The release of adrenaline into his system is 3/4 responsible for Jared back-checking Jensen and pinning him against the cold Plexiglas. The 1/4 testosterone simply wants to show Jensen he's not the only one who can score. 

He gets time in the box for that, too, but it’s worth it to feel Jensen’s muscles flexing beneath him, and to smell Jensen, all sweat-soaked and angry. 

As Jared skates his way towards the box, Jensen’s busy spitting bright red blood onto the ice. Probably bit his tongue when Jared had smashed into him. It looks beautiful as it sinks in, Jensen’s red blood cells, plasma, and DNA infiltrating the water crystals. Jared kinda wishes it was infiltrating him too. 

By the time they make it to third period, Jared has his head on straight again and all he can see is the net, lying right behind Kane’s tucked form. 

Jensen’s standing in front of him, right outside of the red and blue lines, but Jared’s quick. He feints right, then left, and then directly between Jensen’s spread thighs. 

He scores. 

The crowd erupts around him, but Jared hardly notices. He’s too busy watching Jensen’s ass skate away from him. 

Of course, Jensen retaliates. Halfway down the ice he slams Jared into the wall, and Jared goes down hard. Despite all the padding, ice fucking hurts. Still, he gets back up, just in time to watch Jensen get his third goal of the game. A goddamn hat trick. 

After that, Jared tries to give it his best, but it’s hard when there’s only four minutes left, and they’re down 3-1. Instead, he watches Jensen skate, the adeptness in which he uses his inside edges to accelerate but doesn’t lean too far forward. The way the ice sprays when he stops dead in his tracks. It’s like fucking poetry. 

They lose, of course they do. 

Jared simply states into the microphones that Jensen is an amazing player, and that any team would be lucky to have him. That next time, he’ll be more prepared, he won’t underestimate Jensen again.  
He flashes his dimples and skates off the ice. Washes off the loss with scorching hot water until his skin burns and he starts to feel lightheaded. 

Then Jared puts on a pair of blue jeans and a pink, button-down shirt. 

What he needs right now is to get drunk off his ass. That’ll solve his problems. At least for the moment. 

\--

Jared’s six drinks in, working on seven, and getting absolutely d-r-u-n-k, drunk, when Jensen walks into the bar. His hockey gear has been replaced with slim fitting grey jeans that accent the thickness of his thighs and a black tee-shirt. His arms barely fit into the sleeves. Oh. And the motherfucker’s also wearing bracelets around his freckled wrists. Not that Jared’s ever noticed they were freckled. Nope. 

He’s feeling feisty, probably his bourbon-laced brain, so he walks—no—stumbles off the stool he’s been sitting at, so he can get right up in Jensen’s face. Call him out for his asshole behavior on the ice earlier. 

“Whatthefuck, Ackles?” he slurs, elongating the ‘s’ at the end of Jensen’s last name. “Couldn’t get enough of being an asshole on theice? You gotta come bother me at my favorite bar, too?” 

“Whoa there,” Jensen says, putting out his hand on Jared’s chest, stopping him from advancing any further. It also makes Jared want to relax into that hand. Especially with the way it’s rubbing against his nipple. 

“…did you just purr at me, Padalecki?” 

“Uhm,” he hiccups. “Nope. Definitely not.” 

Jensen looks skeptical. 

“Look, man. I didn’t know you were gonna be here. So how ‘bout I sit over here, and you go back to your stool. No harm, no foul.” 

“Yes there is,” he spits out. Literally. Some of it lands on Jensen, who wipes it off with distain on his pants. Jared might be drunk, but he’s still got a right to know what he did. Why Jensen’s so pissed off at him. 

Jared follows Jensen’s hands, as they cross across his chest, pulling each cotton fiber to the max. 

“Are we really going to do this here?” 

“Got any better options?” 

For the first time since they faced off earlier, Jensen gives him a half-smile. “You really don’t know, do you?” 

“Not at all.” 

“Let’s go talk then. But not here. Somewhere private.” 

\--

They take a yellow cab back to Jared’s loft. Jensen had originally tried to give the cabbie the address for the Marriot, but Jared had quickly ruled that out. He lives here. He’s got a better bar, better T.V., better sheets and breakfast food…

They make small talk about the weather in Chicago as they make their way up the elevator to Jared’s penthouse. Avoid everything but the subject about why they’re actually at Jared’s place. 

He grabs a bottle of water for himself and a beer for Jensen. It’s been a long time since they actually talked, but he’s checked Jensen’s twitter feed from time to time. Enough to know that Jensen likes Belgian microbrews. 

“So…” he says, trying to get Jensen to speak first in this game of chicken they’ve got going on. 

“So. Uh. This is awkward,” Jensen states roughly, picking the label slowly off his perspiring glass bottle. “You didn’t get a text from me a few years ago, did you? Around the time we left for college.” 

Jared laughs, because he went through three phones that summer. 

“Uh. I might have dropped one in the Aegean while I was out sailing. And I’m afraid I left another one out in the rain all night. Totally fell out of my pocket. And then with the contract I got—I changed providers and got a new phone number.” 

“Oh.” 

“I didn’t know you called, Jensen. What was so important you had to be a complete dick to me?” 

Jensen takes in a deep breath, and Jared’s sure it’s going to be the worst news on the planet—that his sister died and Jared didn’t get the message and missed her funeral, or maybe a cousin is lying in a coma from a car crash. 

What happens, is that Jensen turns beet-red from v of his shirt up. 

“Oh?” he asks. Because oh.

Jared’s all over that type of text message. 

“Yeah,” Jensen whispers, biting his lip. “I thought…I dunno. I thought maybe you were trying to let me down easy.” 

There’s no possible way with all the bourbon that he imbibed earlier that Jared could construct a sentence that sounds even close to what he’s feeling. So he lets his body do the talking instead. Leans over, real slow, and presses his lips against Jensen’s. 

They’re soft. Moist. Taste like beer, with the hint of something more substantial underneath. Jared licks in, trying to find out exactly what Jensen tastes like. 

Jensen only gets softer as Jared coaxes his way inside. All slick, hot membranes and a strong, warm tongue. Jared fucks Jensen’s mouth with his tongue, the same as he plans on doing to other parts of Jensen later—if he’s willing, that is.

They kiss until Jared’s arms feel about ready to give out, propped up on the island bar between them. Jensen moans loudly when Jared pulls away, biting at his lips. 

“Fuck, you taste good.” 

“You taste like bourbon.” 

Jared shrugs, because it’s true. “At least I bought the good stuff.” 

“Right. Look, I should really be going. I got an early flight out of O’hare…”

It’s good that Jared doesn’t have any inhibitions at the moment, because he’s not at all ashamed when he practically begs, “Change it.” 

“What?” 

“Change the time of your flight and spend the night with me.” 

“I’m not sure you understand, Jared. This isn’t a one-night-stand-thing with me. I’ve been in love with you since we were fifteen. So, if we do this, I want it to be all the way. You and me. Dating.” 

“You want chocolates and roses? Fancy cars? Man-jewelry? I can do that. I’ll be your boyfriend, Ackles.” 

Jensen huffs, and throws out a “fuck you, Padalecki” even though he allows himself to be walked backwards down the hall and into Jared’s bedroom, where he folds like a deck of cards when the back of his knees hit the edge of the mattress. 

Then Jared goes back to kissing him until their lips are swollen and lungs deprived of oxygen. It’s a heady feeling, having Jensen underneath him. How small Jensen’s rib cage looks when Jared spreads his hands over the full width of his chest. The wideness in which Jensen spreads his legs for Jared to slide right in and rub himself against Jensen, enjoying the way his boyfriend’s back arches underneath him. 

Jensen’s shirt pushes up over his head easily, although his pants take a little shimmying to get over the breadth of his pelvis and pale, muscled thighs. 

“Good view?” Jensen asks once Jared slides his black briefs over his knees, ridding Jensen of the last vestige of his clothing. 

“Pretty sure you shouldn’t be allowed to wear clothes. You also shouldn’t leave my bed. Ever.” 

“Yeah, well. Your turn now, Jared.” 

He fumbles a bit with his small motor skills, his fingers don’t want to cooperate with the small buttons on his shirt, so Jensen helps him, pressing kisses down his torso as he goes. Keeps licking and mouthing even after Jared’s shirt and pants are off. Soaks Jared’s underwear with his spit, sucking on Jared’s dick through a single layer of cotton until he almost blows his load in his briefs. 

“Fuck, Jensen. Stop. I’m gonna come.” 

Jensen laughs, creating vibrations that make Jared buck into Jensen’s face. 

“Kinda the point there, big boy.” 

Although he’s pleased that Jensen’s noticed he’s not exactly small, he still doesn’t want to come in his underwear like he did, thinking about Jensen as a teen. 

Instead, he takes his dick out of his briefs and feeds it into Jensen’s hot, willing mouth. 

Jensen looks even more beautiful taking his cock than Jared imagined. Cherry-red lips spread around his girth, staring up at him from wide, moss-colored eyes glazed over in pleasure does it for Jared. He only has enough thought remaining in his brain (that Jensen’s currently trying to extract out of his cranium via his cock) to pull out and come all over Jensen’s freckle splattered cheeks. 

“Mine,” Jared purrs, dropping a hand to Jensen’s dick as he licks his come off Jensen’s face before it starts to itch. 

Jensen’s cock is already hot and leaking in Jared’s hand, and it doesn’t take long, a few tight, fast thrusts before he’s spilling, making a mess of both himself and Jared. 

Jared slumps over onto Jensen once they’ve come, body drained from hours of physical exercise and drinking. 

“Hey,” Jensen mumbles, pushing Jared off him and rearranging his limbs so that they’re completely encasing Jared’s body. “You better not sleep all night. I plan on scoring another hat trick in bed tonight.” 

“Mmmmm,” Jared hums into Jensen’s spine. He’d definitely like to score another two times tonight too…right after he takes a nap. 

When he finally gets up at seven in the morning, Jensen’s already making coffee and bacon in the kitchen. And dressed in Jared’s hockey jersey. Only Jared's hockey jersey, in fact. Long, muscled legs, and full pink balls on display. 

“Morning, Jen,” he says, pressing Jensen into the counter. 

They’ve definitely got enough time for another two goals before Jensen’s flight leaves at noon.


End file.
